


did i tell you about that time?

by lithopsornot



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Harley Quinn (Cartoon 2019), Harley Quinn (Comics)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:41:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29492229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lithopsornot/pseuds/lithopsornot
Summary: inspired by this tumblr post:"thinking abt that specific type of intimacy from being in someone’s bedroom for the first time, & you’re poking around their items, & they’re reclined backwards on their bed telling you all the little stories while they follow you around the room with their eyes, & you feel it."but make it harlivy
Relationships: Harley Quinn/Poison Ivy, Pamela Isley/Harleen Quinzel
Comments: 2
Kudos: 62





	did i tell you about that time?

**Author's Note:**

> https://wildguarneres.tumblr.com/post/642976871419691008 
> 
> link to the post

harley often thinks about the fact that everyone already knows everything there is to her. everything, from the surface of her— her favorite color, her favourite drink, how she likes to tie her hair— to insides—her least favourite memory, her least favourite phrase, how she hates to be held. all her stories, all the times she’s picked up a bat and all the times she put it down, they’re in the morning paper; her great takeovers and her even greater losses, broadcasted in the evening news. everything, everything is out in the open no matter what she does.

harley used to think she was a person who vicariously lived through her own stories, her own tellings and retellings of them, maybe she still thinks so, feels so—but what does it matter, when there’s nothing left to be told?

she knows it’s not a big deal, that she’s constantly making news one way or another, and that her stories don’t need to be filled with mystical creatures and epic fight scenes, don’t need to be funny or heart wrenching or anything at all really, to be worth being told. she knows they don’t have to be new either, she can repeat an unchanging past over and over again, without embellishment or with, vaguely or in detail. she knows ivy would listen eitherway.

if harley is a good storyteller, ivy is the best audience she’s had in a long, long time. ivy scoffs at the ridiculous parts, rolls her eyes when exaggeration goes past the limit and suspension of disbelief can’t hold out anymore. ivy lets their hands touch, ever so slightly, when the story is sad, and intertwines their fingers when the story is happy. ivy makes nature play an avid role when harley is in a theatric mood; when they’re outside and the grass stretches to wrap around harley’s ankle so she can reenact the perfect escape story-harley pulled off, when the trees laugh, spare a few leaves, as harley huffs about the rude personwho cut her off in the grocery store line. ivy’s kiss, when harley gets carried away, she reels her in, harley goes easy.

yes, she knows, it shouldn’t matter really. if everyone knows everything, if everyone’s been told everything by her or some other source. if she’s out of stories or if her stories just aren’t as interesting to hear anymore. she thinks of ivy, it calms the feeling inside her for a moment but it comes back stronger when the thought passes. and it’s a feeling she can’t properly describe, its not sadness, but it’s close enough; lack, coming up short, something akin to that, maybe.

it comes and goes and comes again. and one day, when it’s come in full swing, has made itself comfortable, at home inside harley, ivy visits her apartment.

it’s weird. they’ve been together for a couple of months but have known each other for what feels like ages before that, and in all this time, it’s always been harley at ivy’s door. sure, the latter has come over occasionally to drop off some things or to pick her up every now and then, but it was never like this: ivy concerned at her lack of response to her texts, walking all the way in, shoes off at the door, take out placed on the kitchen table. or like this: ivy in her bedroom, poking around curiously at all her things.

harley follows her with her eyes from where she’s sat on the bed, the feeling from before somewhat forgotten as she takes in the sight. ivy, in her apartment, ivy in her bedroom, it shouldn’t feel right, shouldn’t look right, ivy should stick out like a sore thumb; there are leaks in odd corners of her room, broken window latches, broken locks on doors, there are clothes spilling from the closet in which they were rapidly showed and there’s ivy, who doesn’t look as out of place as she should.

harley watches her quietly, startled by her own silence. apparently so is ivy, maybe that’s why she starts asking questions.

“what’s this picture?”

“what happened to this snow globe?”

“you own a coaster?”

the picture one of her and harley’s mom at her college graduation, an old, ragged thing, edges browning and all but it was safe within its wooden frame. the snow globe cracked in an incident where harley decided to bring home a stray (read: feral) cat. the coaster, well, it just happened to get there, harley thinks she swiped it from a hotel or something; as a parting gift from the hotel to herself, curtesy of herself.

ivy continues picking up random things and asking questions about them. they make it from the bedroom to the living room floor, the questions don’t stop, so neither does harley’s stories as they eat the food ivy brought along with her. harley didn’t realize just how much stuff she had lying around; barely remembering the last time she slept at her own place in the past few months, let alone organised all her junk.

still, ivy doesn’t seem to mind, not the random objects lying around nor the memories, anecdotes attached to them.

harley‘s throat goes hoarse, the conversation stretching all the way past midnight when she takes ivy’s hand and they return back to the bedroom, where she asks ivy to stay the night and ivy responds with a kiss. her mind tired from all the reminiscing, she’d had to remember stories she hadn’t told in years, or ever really. and her chest, reeling at the realisation that there is still something, there are still somethings not everyone knows; that she still has some stories to herself, to ivy.

**Author's Note:**

> didn't check this properly so there'll probably b mistakes sorrrrry


End file.
